Battlegrounds

In the meadows rich with corn,
Where once the battlegrounds were born,
The soldiers bravely gave their all,
Until they heard the bugle's call.

By the ponds round orchards sweep
Apples and lemons fruited deep.
The mounted armies plundered forth
To strike their blows a'fore heading north.

The clustered spires of churches,
Green-walled by grand silver-birches
Bear their solitary witness
To the stench, the blood and the mess.

All day long in mudded troughs
The spirits of the fallen plead - enough!
'Til horses' hoofs shall beat no more
Nor too the bodies by the score.

Herald honour in the ranks;
The cry of many fallen Yanks,
For those who served and lost their lives,
"For what?" the crying call of wives.

In soft, yellow carpet grass,
Abundant now with daisy mass
Have all forgotten those who died -
Their bodies lying side by side.